


Working Class Hero

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Child Abuse, Circus, Pre-Avengers (2012), Pre-Canon, Song Lyrics, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The history of Clint Barton, set to the song 'Working Class Hero' by John Lennon (later covered by Green Day)





	

_As soon as you're born they make you feel small_

Clinton Francis Barton was born at 4:37am at Mercy Iowa City, weighing 5 pounds and 2 ounces. Despite his mum giving birth 8 weeks before her due date, it was blessedly free of complications. Mr Barton was noticeably absent, but the entire process was watched by five year old Barney.

“He’s ugly.” Was Barney’s first comment on meeting his new brother.

His mum was too woozy from the epidural to correct him.

“Are you excited about being a big brother?” The midwife asked, crouching down to look Barney in the eyes.

Barney scuffed his shoes on the floor.

“It’s an important job. You have to protect him.” The midwife gave Barney a smile.

“Ain’t nobody pro-tec-ting me.”

Two hours later, a man with bloodshot eyes and a cut on his right cheek checked the Barton’s out of hospital. The midwife tried to protest – Mrs Barton was still wobbly from the epidural, and Clinton was small and early and they wanted to monitor him – but something in the man’s eyes prevented her from stopping him.

She had planned to mention Barney’s comment to Child Protective Services, but her next patient suffered a stillbirth and the incident slipped from her mind.

_By giving you no time instead of it all_

The first lesson Clinton learnt was to keep his mouth shut.

If he made too much noise and disturbed his father, he got beaten. If he was hungry and asked for more food at dinnertime, he got beaten. If it all got too much and he started crying, he got beaten.

If he stayed out of the way and never said a word, he still got beaten, but not as much – and that made it easier to hide the bruises the next day.

His Kindergarten teacher had been concerned the first time he came in with a bruise, asking if everything was alright at home. Clinton had said nothing. If he told anyone, his dad would kill him – if Barney didn’t kill him first.

She was a nice lady, his teacher, and she meant well. But she had a class of 32 kids, and Clinton wasn’t the only one with problems at home. Some of them didn’t hide it as well as he did. Between looking after them and trying to ignore her husband’s cheating (she hadn’t said anything, but Clinton had seen him with one of the janitors) she didn’t have any time left for Clinton.

No-one had any time for Clinton. He had accepted that. He just wasn’t important enough.

Even Barney didn’t have time for his brother. He was ten, and preferred to hang out with kids his own age and throw bricks through windows and at cars. Clinton tried to follow him, but he wasn’t strong enough to throw a brick through a window yet, and Barney always laughed at him.

Still, being laughed at by his brother and his friends was better than staying at home with his father and the belt.

_'Til the pain is so big you feel nothing at all_

If he dug his fingernails into his palms hard enough, he could almost feel something other than the suffocating blankness.

His mother was gone. Clinton’s mother was gone. His mother – the only person in his family who had never beaten him, never mocked him, never stolen his food or starved him – was gone. Clinton felt like his world had just fallen apart.

She hadn’t been a particularly good mother. She hadn’t been anything like how the other kids in his class described their mothers – kind, or sweet, letting him help with the cooking and lick the cake mixture off the spoon. For the most part, she had just ignored him. But sometimes, she had smiled sadly, and that was more than Clinton got from anyone else.

He had loved her. He loved Barney too, but his love for his mother had been stronger.

But Clinton wasn’t allowed to have nice things. So now she was gone.

_A working class hero is something to be_

The first time someone drew graffiti on his mum’s grave, Clinton punched them in the face. He was half their size but still managed to give them a nosebleed. They came back the next day with three friends, and Barney had to drag them off Clinton before they broke his arms.

_A working class hero is something to be_

The day that Clinton became strong enough to throw a brick through a window, Barney clapped him on the shoulder and declared him “one of us now”. Clinton didn’t understand the swooping sensation of guilt curled up in his gut.

_They hurt you at home and they hit you at school_

Without his mum at home, the beatings got worse.

Clinton didn’t know if she had stopped his father beating him, or taken the beatings himself, or just made his father a nicer person. But he knew that he could no longer hide the bruises, or cuts, particularly the first time he landed in A&E with a broken wrist.

Lots of people kept asking him how the accident had happened, and if everything was alright at home. But Barney had told him to lie or they would be separated. So Clinton spun an elaborate story about an accident on the playground and repeated it until his throat was hoarse. He didn’t think anyone believed him, but they put his wrist in a cast and let him go with only a few anxious facial expressions seared into his memory.

Clinton had to have the cast re-set twice because his dad cracked it. The first time he claimed he fell out of a tree. The second he claimed he fell down the stairs. Each time the worried looks got more and more intense, but Clinton lied and he lied and eventually the arm healed and he could escape their suffocating clutches.

There was nothing worse than the false hope their words provided when he knew he was never going to escape.

He got into fights at school as well. The other first graders tried to talk to him at first, but then they gave up and started teasing him about his tattered clothes, his messy hair, his smell because the shower had broken and his father hadn’t paid to have it fixed yet. Most of the time Clinton just ignored it, but sometimes it was easier to throw a punch and get away for the rest of the day. His father always beat him worse when he got called into school, but the pain was almost normal to Clinton now. After years of beatings it couldn’t get much worse.

They threatened to kick Clinton out of school once, and he just shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t fit in there anyway. He learnt more when he was out with Barney and his friends spraying graffiti on the walls than he did in any school classes.

What did a person like him need an education for anyway? He was never going to get a chance to use it.

_They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool_

The thing was, Clinton was smart.

He picked up everything he was taught – spelling, grammar, maths, science, geography, whatever – faster than everyone else in his class. It was boring, because then he had to sit around and wait for everyone else to catch up.

Clinton used this time to draw elaborate doodles on the worksheets, or fold elaborate origami figures, or try and hit his classmates on the head with paper projectiles. He was seven, but he could still hit anyone even if they were on the other side of the classroom. His aim had been honed by days spent with Barney – compared to a brick, throwing paper was easy.

But his teachers never marked worksheets that had been turned into flowers or decorated with pictures of flying monkeys, so they thought he was stupid. They talked about remedial tutors and making him repeat the year. Clinton just stayed silent with the knowledge that the education system was stupid anyway and it didn’t matter what some middle-class middle-aged fucker thought. (The first time he said that out loud, his teacher called his dad and he got beaten so hard he thought he could see his spine through the broken skin in the mirror).

Sometimes, Clinton would steal books from school at the end of the day and hide up a tree, learning about the Roman Empire or Fractions or the works of the Brontes. He would never admit it, but learning about these things was pretty interesting outside of the rigidities of the American education system.

_'Til you're so fucking crazy you can't follow their rules_

Clinton’s dad died on a Wednesday. It was a warm day, cloudy but with a muggy sort of atmosphere that was almost suffocating. Clinton had spent the morning chucking pencils at Greg because he stole the purple one.

The woman appeared at school just after lunch, in the sort of suit that Clinton knew to stay away from. When his teacher pulled him aside, he knew he was in some deep shit.

When she told him, he didn’t know if he was more scared or relieved.

He would never be beaten by his father’s belt ever again. But now, he might lose Barney.

Clinton ran five kilometres to his brother’s school on the other side of town. People tried to chase after him, but Clinton was fast for his age and he knew how to scramble over rooftops and through deserted alleyways better than any adult. He found Barney punching a wall and swearing three blocks from the school.

That night, they packed a change of clothes and some food into a bag and set off to find somewhere better. Barney promised to look after his little brother.

Clinton was seven, and he didn’t want to lose Barney. But he already knew that Barney’s promise meant jack shit.

_A working class hero is something to be_

After three days, Clinton was cold, tired, and his muscles ached from continually running away from anyone vaguely suspicious looking. Barney had a split lip from a shopkeeper he’d tried to steal food from, and a scowl on his face that told Clint not to bother him.

_A working class hero is something to be_

After seven days, Clinton felt like he was going to pass out unless he got a decent meal and some water. His left eye was swollen shut and he was missing two fingernails on his right hand.

Then they found the circus.

_When they've tortured and scared you for 20 odd years_

At the circus, Clinton ceased to be ‘Clinton’ and instead became ‘The Amazing Hawkeye’. His uncanny aim throwing bricks through windows served him well when he was given a bow. ‘He never misses’ the posters proclaimed – and after the first couple of months, being beaten whenever he was more than an inch off, he didn’t. For the first time in his life, he was applauded and recognised and valued.

But in many ways, the circus was no different to the hell of his home. As a new tagalong, ‘Hawkeye’ was at the bottom of the pack. Barney was outgoing and tough, bigger than his twelve years and all the meaner for it. Clinton was younger, quieter, an easier target. Sure, he fought dirty, but he was still small and seven years old. He couldn’t stop the other carnie folk from stealing his food, or his clothes. The only thing he could protect was his bow, which he kept under his pillow and everyone quickly learnt he was dangerous with.

(They left the acrobat who tried to steal it on the doorstep of the nearest hospital with an arrow hanging out of her eye. Barney clapped Clinton on the back, and he managed to make it out of sight behind the Strongman’s tent before he threw up thinking about what he’d done).

Trick Shot didn’t use a belt, like his dad. He just made Clinton practise over and over again until his fingers were rubbed raw and bloody, then left him outside in the cold. If he missed by more than three inches, the knife came out – Clinton learnt how to give himself stitches aged eight from a bearded lady. The same woman taught him to cook enough stew for the entire circus, and later, how to stomach an entire bottle of tequila without throwing up.

When Trick Shot got too drunk and mean, Clinton hid with her – or with the Swordsman, the only man in the circus who could probably take Trick Shot in a fight. He taught Clinton hand to hand combat, as well as how to throw knives and pick pockets without being noticed. Trick Shot and the Swordsman were rivals, and Clinton didn’t trust either of them. But by gaining skills from both, he hoped that if worst came to worst, he would know enough to survive.

Years went by. Hawkeye never forgot about Clinton Barton, but he moved far past the small farm boy from Iowa. He became the teenage circus prodigy, the star attraction, the kid with the bow that could hit a target the size of a gnat on the other side of the tent whilst jumping through a flaming hoop. He was an archer, an acrobat, a fighter – and eventually, also an assassin.

It was Barney who Trick Shot picked to join him on his ‘excursions’ into the towns, but Hawkeye took to following them. His brother had always protected him, and now it was his turn to protect his brother. When one of their jobs went south, Hawkeye took out three assailants with arrows before anyone realised what was going on.

He’d never killed anyone before. He never even found out their names.

After that, Hawkeye came on every job – until Trick Shot betrayed him, and Barney told him to run. Hawkeye hadn’t known anything but the circus for ten long years. He didn’t know if he could survive without it. But deep inside there were still remnants of Clinton Barton, and Clinton Barton always did what his brother said.

He ran.

_Then they expect you to pick a career_

‘The Amazing Hawkeye’ became Hawkeye the mercenary out of necessity.

The streets were rough, and getting by on squatting and pilfered groceries was a shit way to live. Hawkeye’s skills weren’t in much demand outside the circus – except in the field of crime. His aim translated well onto any weapon he was given, and he quickly built up a reputation as the man to go to if you wanted someone out of the way.

Hawkeye became someone everyone knew of, but no-one knew. He was on the most wanted list of every state in America, but no-one even knew his name. He had five bank accounts under five different names, and safe houses in every major city. You couldn’t be a major crime boss if you hadn’t employed Hawkeye at least once.

As his reputation grew, Hawkeye got more picky. He only took on jobs where he believed his target deserved to die. It lead to more than a few near misses with employers, but if there was one art Hawkeye had perfected, it was how to run away.

Hawkeye never missed, and he never got caught.

_When you can't really function, you're so full of fear_

Hawkeye met the Black Widow when he was employed to assassinate a Russian drug lord.

When he was employed the man was in America, but he flew back to Russia before Hawkeye had finished his stakeout. Hawkeye didn’t normally do jobs abroad, but this man had his fingers in human smuggling and child prostitution, and Hawkeye didn’t doubt that he really, really deserved to die.

He wasn’t the only one with that opinion.

Had Hawkeye been the sort of mercenary who killed without question, who felt no fear – or any emotion at all – he would have killed the Black Widow too. But fear was ingrained into Hawkeye deeper than anything else, and he recognised that in others.

He recognised it in her.

It took weeks for him to catch her, and longer to have a conversation. He didn’t think he would ever have her trust. But a small lapse with his finger on the trigger and a split second decision lead to someone who might, on a good day, be called an ally.

_A working class hero is something to be_

When Hawkeye and the Black Widow dismantled the largest child smuggling ring in Russia, they were hailed as heroes.

Hawkeye wasn’t a hero. Heroes didn’t get paid to kill people for a living. Heroes didn’t grow up vandalising property, never progress beyond the third grade, and put their first victim in hospital when they were eight years old.

_A working class hero is something to be_

Heroes didn’t abandon their brothers with bloodthirsty mercenaries, even if said brother was also an assassin.

_Keep you doped with religion, and sex, and T.V._

“Do you believe in a God?”

Hawkeye glanced up the Black Widow, setting the arrow he had been twirling onto the bed.

“No. Some of the carnie folk believed in spirits, but not a God.” He paused. “Do you?”

“I believe in death.”

Other mercenaries claimed the Black Widow was heartless. Hawkeye knew better. She didn’t trust him, but she let him see small pieces of the puzzle that made up her life – and the more he saw, the more he knew just how far from heartless she was.

They had worked together for years, been sleeping together for months, and he was still learning the basic details about her. Hawkeye was a private individual. The Black Widow had hidden that she was even a person at all.

_And you think you're so clever and classless and free_

Eventually, Hawkeye’s luck ran out.

He knew that he had captured the attention of law enforcement – that had been the case for years. But after one job, he realised he’d been noticed by a new bunch of suits. Competent suits. And that was fucking terrifying.

The Black Widow vanished when they showed up. Hawkeye probably could have tracked her, but he knew better. If she had left, that meant she thought the suits could catch him. He had only just manoeuvred himself into a position of her trust. The last thing he wanted now was to leave her to the mercies of the law.

They could catch him, but he wouldn’t let them catch her unless she wanted to be caught.

Hawkeye didn’t exactly like his life. He didn’t enjoy killing people, or constantly being on the run, or relying on people worse than the ones he was killing for money to live. But it was much better now than it had ever been before, and he doubted there was anywhere to go but down from here.

He’d relinquished his chance at a better life when he was seven years old and followed his brother to the circus. Or maybe he’d never had a chance at one at all.

Suits only wanted two things – to kill you, or to employ you. Hawkeye didn’t think he had a realistic shot at the latter with his record – and even if he did, he’d tried following orders. He’d moved on from that. He didn’t particularly want to return to being at someone else’s mercy ever again.

Not if he had the choice.

_But you're still fucking peasants as far as I can see_

As it turned out, he didn’t have the choice. Hawkeye the mercenary became Clint (not Clinton – he’d never return to Clinton) Barton, probationary SHIELD agent and general attack dog for whoever felt like holding his leash.

Clint hadn’t cried in years. He had learnt better than to externally show any signs of weakness.

Sometimes he wished he’d retained some way of letting his emotions out.

_A working class hero is something to be_

SHIELD said they would make Clint a hero. He didn’t want to be a hero. He knew it was too late for that.

_A working class hero is something to be_

Director Fury took one look at Clint and it felt like all of his secrets had been laid bare.

Clint was smart enough to know when someone could beat him. Previously that list had consisted of one – the Black Widow, and only because of whatever enhancements she’d been given by the Red Room.

Nick Fury slotted in at number two.

_There's room at the top they are telling you still_

Clint was tossed between handlers like a football. He was insubordinate, he had trust issues, he never did what he was told, he couldn’t work in a team.

He had a good aim and an uncanny knack for getting into trouble. The situation always went to shit around him, but he always made it out alive.

If he learnt how to follow orders and work with others he could be the best Specialist SHIELD had ever had, but he had no interest in learning those things.

_But first you must learn how to smile as you kill_

“Barton, do you have the shot?”

Clint looked down the shaft of his arrow at the red haired woman below.

It had only been a matter of time, he supposed. The woman was on every hit list in every country. She had a list of crimes longer than most other criminals combined. And after all this time, she was tired of running.

“Negative. I do not have the shot.”

Clint turned off his commlink, packed away his bow and arrow, and set off to have a long overdue conversation with the Black Widow.

_If you want to be like the folks on the hill_

Clint sat on the rickety chair, trying to pretend there wasn’t an awkward itch between his shoulder blades.

His handlers were predictable. They dressed in cheap suits (fieldwork ruined too many for nice suits to be economical or sensible), stood in postures that spoke of trying too hard to be an alpha male, and never turned their back on their Specialists.

Agent Coulson had been sat with his back to Clint, filling in a form, for the past ten minutes.

Clint didn’t know how to react. Should he draw attention to his presence? Should he leave? Should he draw a gun or a knife, just to see what Coulson would do?

Eventually, Agent Coulson set down his pen and turned around in his chair.

His suit spoke of expense and tailoring. His posture wasn’t trying to be alpha male – it was unquestionably alpha male, but almost in an unassuming way. A way that said he didn’t have to try to be the most powerful person in the room. A way that wasn’t quite trying to hide it, but certainly wasn’t shouting about it either.

Coulson’s eyes met Clint’s and held the contact. Neither spoke.

For the first time in his life, Clint wanted to trust someone else. And terrifyingly, he felt like he could.

_A working class hero is something to be_

The more missions Clint ran with Coulson – and later with Coulson and Natasha – he more he became increasingly certain that he wasn’t the hero.

Coulson was.

Coulson, with his neat suits, his calm but firm manner, his ability to diffuse a situation with words, and his ability to make two assassins almost into human beings again.

To make Clint feel like a human being again.

Clint didn’t deserve Coulson. He didn’t deserve someone who trusted him, unfailingly, to have his back no matter what. Who trusted him to deal with a situation in the correct way without giving him explicit instructions. Who trusted him to decide who lived and who died and for it to be the right call.

He didn’t deserve someone who called him a hero when he was so, so far from heroic – but who said it so honestly that Clint could almost, for a second, believe it.

_A working class hero is something to be_

Relationships required trust, and trust wasn’t something Clint found easy to give. He trusted Natasha because he understood her like he understood himself. They weren’t the same, but they had shared enough that it didn’t matter anymore.

He trusted Coulson because he was the first person to ever understand who Clint was, and still treat him like a human being.

_If you want to be a hero well just follow me_

Clint wasn’t a hero, but Coulson made him want to be.

_If you want to be a hero well just follow me_

And with Coulson, Clint sometimes – just sometimes – felt like he might have a chance.


End file.
